


Too True to Be Good

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Clarke Griffin, Diners, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:49:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: Clarke's never been one to put much stock by things like astrology or horoscopes. She much prefers cold, hard facts — science, history, geography; things that can be documented and tested and proven. Everything else is fanciful fluff, and for her, that definitely includes the interpretation of dreams.All the same, relentless rationalisations aside, she finds herself dwelling on this particular one.Or, the one where Clarke has averyweird dream about her best friend — one that completely changes how she sees him.





	Too True to Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> ah, the rare sighting of a fic of mine written in clarke's pov 
> 
> ok so fun fact: i actually started this fic november 7, 2017. inspired by the famous dream scene from 3x01 of Gilmore Girls, which i was rewatching at the time bcos it's comforting (and also i never actually finished it the first time round lmao)
> 
>  
> 
> (title from 'Humdrum' by The Corrs)

  
  


 

Clarke would like to say that she could count the number of times she’s woken up without the help of an alarm on one hand, but the truth is, even five fingers would be a gross overestimation of her abilities. (She enjoys sleep, okay? It’s not a crime.)

 

She also usually feels one of two things whenever she wakes up: stressed, or exhausted. She’s almost always finds herself halfway through compiling her to-do list for the day before she can even open her eyes, her brain already whirring at full speed. So, as weird as it is to rouse from slumber right now and feel neither of those things, it’s also welcomingly peaceful.

 

Shit, scratch that. She feels… _happy. Blissful,_ even.

 

She practically floats out of her bedroom, following the scent of bacon and pancakes all the way down the hallway and into the kitchen.

 

“Bless you,” she says, walking right up to the man standing at the stove, his familiar back turned to her. “Bless you a hundred times over.”

 

Bellamy smiles, leaning into the kiss she plants on his cheek even as he flips a pancake. “Coffee’s on your left.”

 

“A thousand times over!” she exclaims, turning to the coffeemaker in delight. “You are a prince among men. A god among mortals. A king—” She stops short, sniffing at the mug of coffee she’s just poured herself. “Of garbage,” she finishes flatly, turning towards him. “Which this is.”

 

Bellamy doesn’t even look up. “It’s _decaf,_ ” he corrects readily, already fully prepared for her reaction.

 

“A.K.A. _garbage,_ ” she insists, shaking the cup at him.

 

He points his spatula at her. “A.K.A. _healthy_!”

 

“No, it’s—” She leans in, pointing a scandalised hand at the pan. “Is that _turkey bacon_?!”

 

He deftly flips over the strips of meat with his spatula, and then moves on to a second pan to see to a pancake. "It's basically the same thing."

 

"It's _turkey_!"

 

"It's breakfast," he replies, annoyingly calm. "You know you've gotta cut back on the caffeine and the red meat. That shit is bad for you."

 

"How dare you," she argues with a horrified stare. "That shit is _great_ for me!"

 

Bellamy sets the spatula down and turns to face her, smiling good-naturedly. "I mean all _three_ of you," he says, slipping a placating hand around her waist and placing another on her belly. "These two need proper nutrition, Clarke."

 

"I'll have you know caffeine and red meat are _plenty_ nutritious," she insists, but she's grinning nonetheless. "And I should know — I survived pretty much all of junior _and_ senior year on nothing _but._ "

 

"And look how you turned out," Bellamy quips, silencing her offended protests with an affectionate kiss, his lips warm on hers before he crouches down slightly, his nose inches from her tummy. "I'm sorry if Mom's shitty diet gives you both high cholesterol before you're even born."

 

"I'm sorry if Dad's shitty sense of humour kills off all your brain cells before you're even born," she retorts to her own belly, shoving Bellamy back.

 

He laughs, catching hold of her so he can stroke his warm palms down her bare arms. "Look, if you're good about this, I'll whip up some brownies as a reward for dessert tonight, all right? Extra fudge."

 

She slides her free arm around his neck, tugging petulantly at the dark curls growing just above the nape of his neck. "That better not be the only _dessert_ I'm getting tonight, too," she says, unable to resist throwing in a suggestive arch of her brow despite her grudging tone.

 

Bellamy grins and leans in for another kiss. She tilts her face up to meet him eagerly, pressing into every part of his body as closely as she can, their lips barely a hair's breadth away from—

 

A sharp, blaring sound flings the world into pitch black, the deafening tone pulsing again and again and battering against the fog of sleep still lingering in her brain.

 

Her eyelids fly open.

 

She's awake. She's in bed. She's… _alone._

 

"What the fuck," she whispers, her own voice sounding alien to her ears after several hours of dehydration. She swallows, blinks hard twice, and says again, "What the _fuck_."

 

What the _hell_ kind of dream was that?!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke's never been one to put much stock by things like astrology or horoscopes. She much prefers cold, hard facts — science, history, geography; things that can be documented and tested and _proven._ Everything else is fanciful fluff, and for her, that _definitely_ includes dream interpretation.

 

All the same, her relentless rationalisations aside (dreams don't necessarily mean anything; the intricacies of the subconscious can't be reduced to superficial images), she finds herself dwelling on this particular dream, turning it over and over in her head as she gets dressed and ready to go. For a full minute, she even debates staying home for breakfast.

 

But then she goes into her kitchen, takes one look at her stove counter and heads right back out the way she came, grabbing her bag and jacket along the way.

 

_It's just a dream,_ she tells herself as she starts on her regular route towards the diner. _Just a dumb dream. Nothing to freak out about._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As long as Clarke has been living in Arktown, she's been coming to Bell's.

 

Truth be told, it's not like there's much else to choose from when it comes to breakfast. Polis, the one truly nice restaurant in town, is far too upscale for her everyday needs. Mecha only opens several hours after lunch, according to Raven's night owl tendencies. Agro is decent, but it's also all-vegetarian, which is a _huge_ no-no for her. (Hell, even the owners of Agro, Jasper and Monty, regularly come to Bell's for breakfast.)

 

For a good, hearty breakfast, there's truly nowhere else in town for her but Bell's.

 

Granted, the owner can be kind of a dick sometimes, but that's really only until he gets to know you.

 

Her first three weeks in Arktown were more or less spent having loud arguments with Bellamy Blake over the counter about his shitty attitude or asshole comments. Even then, she always ended up storming out with a large takeaway cup of his coffee in one hand because yeah, he was a judgemental jerk, but he was a judgemental jerk who fucking kicked ass at making coffee.

 

Thankfully, they'd buried the hatchet after she pitched in to help with the town fundraiser for new computers for the library, helping Maya design and make the costumes for the mini-musical the fifth- and sixth-graders were putting on and staying up five nights in a row to get them done. The day of the fundraiser, Bellamy confessed that he'd only been a dick because he'd thought she was just a stuck-up, rich daddy's girl looking to slum it out in their little town for a month or two "for the culture". She'd punched him in the arm, they'd shaken hands, and effectively moved on.

 

Ever since that day, their relationship has been relatively conflict-free — clashing opinions on movie franchises and pineapple on pizza aside. They see each other every morning in the diner when she comes in for breakfast at eight a.m. (except for Sundays, because on Sundays, you can't drag her from her bed any earlier than ten). They hang out every now and then — sometimes with Monty and Jasper and Raven; sometimes alone, like when she's chilling in the diner after closing with her sketchpad or laptop and he's cleaning the coffee machines or drying the cutlery. Sometimes she stays back with the sole purpose of helping him polish off the last of the unsold apple pie, topped off with an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream which he always pretends to grumble about but makes sure to hold down on the whipped cream nozzle extra long anyway.

 

They text with a good measure of regularity, especially when she has to go out of town for client meetings and other work. He even picks her up from the airport sometimes, which she particularly enjoys because most of the time, he packs a burger or some fries and brings it along to meet her off her flight.

 

At this point, he's practically her best friend in town.

 

Her best friend _anywhere,_ for that matter.

 

Which is why she really _shouldn't_ be having vivid dreams about waking up to her _best friend_ making her breakfast _in her own kitchen_ and _casually kissing her on the lips_ and, oh, _talking to her fucking belly?!_ As much as she tries to remind herself that barely any dreams make any sense to begin with, she can't shake the realisation that none of the above falls anywhere _near_ platonic best friend territory.

 

"Fuck," she mutters as the diner comes into view, sitting right on the corner of the street she's walked every day for the last two years. "Fuck, _fuck._ "

 

_Just a dream. Nothing more._

 

Pushing through the door, she heads straight for her usual table, peeling off her jacket and draping it over the back of her chair before lowering herself into what she's come to think of as her chair. All the while, she tries not to make it _too_ obvious that she's staring at the floor, vainly trying to put off the chances of making eye contact with—

 

"It's ten past eight," Bellamy says, appearing at her tableside with a mug and a fresh pot of coffee. "Late start?"

 

She looks up, distracted with pretending she's not on the verge of springing up and running out the door. "Oh, uh, little bit. Slept past my alarm by accident." Her cheeks instantly flush with heat — _why_ did she have to mention that?! She clears her throat. "What about you, how's your morning?"

 

Bellamy casts her a look as he sets her full mug in front of her. "Uh. All right, I guess. The usual?"

 

"Oh, yeah," she laughs hastily, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. "Yeah, I'll bet."

 

He cocks his head. "I'm asking if you want your usual."

 

"Oh!" She throws in another high-pitched laugh. "Right, duh. Uh, yes, please."

 

"Turkey bacon?"

 

Her head whips up, eyes wide as dinner plates. _"What?!"_

 

Bellamy raises a brow, one hand on his hip. "I said, extra bacon?"

 

"Oh. _Oh._ " She's too relieved to even try and fake another laugh. "Uh, yeah. Bacon. Sure, okay."

 

He grabs the coffee pot, the skeptical look on his face not letting up. "Be right back."

 

_Smooth,_ she tells herself, slumping down onto the table the second Bellamy disappears into the kitchen. _Real smooth._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The dream repeats itself the next night.

 

This time, she wakes up right as Bellamy's dream lips touch hers, an odd sensation of warmth coiling low in her gut.

 

She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, groaning loudly. "Stop," she commands herself, banging her head against her own pillow. "Stop, stop, _stop._ " Unfortunately, it fails to make the images of tan, freckled skin and warm brown eyes go away.

 

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but once she gets to Bell's, she's somehow twice as awkward as she was the morning before, barely even able to meet his eye.

 

"You okay?" he says as he's refilling her coffee mug, peering into her face. "You look a little… nauseated."

 

She blushes hotly, her fork clattering ungracefully into the side of her plate. "What? I'm not nauseated. Who's nauseated?"

 

"I said you _look_ it." He steps closer. "Are you sure you—"

 

She drops her fork altogether.

 

"You know what, I just remembered," she says, pushing abruptly out of her chair and reaching for her purse. "I have this email I need to send out by— uh, soon." She wrestles a ten-dollar bill out of her wallet and practically shoves it at him. "Keep the change!"

 

Bellamy stares after her incredulously. "You're not even gonna finish your bacon?"

 

She pauses, struggling to think of a quick response. "I— gotta go," she says, half frantic as she pivots on her heel and charges for the door. "Bye!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

[11.21am]

**Hey, hope you're feeling better.**

  


[1.49pm]

**Could save you a piece of pie**

**for tonight if you're up to it?**

  


[3.18pm]

**Hahaha oh my god. Have you seen**

**Jasper's new haircut yet hahahaha**

  


[8.02pm]

**Closing in an hour. Let me**

**know if you want that pie.**

  
  


[10.34pm]

**Hope you're resting up. Drink water**

**and see a doctor if you need to.**

 

 

* * *

 

 

The third time she has the dream, she doesn't even bother going into the diner.

 

She makes do in the morning with a Pop-Tart (her very last one) and some instant coffee that tastes fine but, for some reason, she almost never drinks. She spends the entire sordid meal staring anxiously at her laptop screen, clicking aimlessly through her email inboxes and random news sites without really seeing anything. It's more of an attempt to avoid looking at her phone than anything, the unanswered text notifications burning a hole through the screen.

 

_You're an idiot,_ she tells herself, the last, uneaten quarter of the Pop-Tart staring at her from her plate. _This is beyond dramatic. You're a fucking idiot._

 

All the same, when she goes to the grocery store later to pick up more Pop-Tarts, she takes the long way to avoid passing by the diner.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey," Raven greets when Clarke walks into Mecha just after four in the afternoon, brows lifting in surprise. "Bit early for a drink, isn't it?"

 

"I don't know, is it?" Clarke says dully, dropping her bag into a barstool and hoisting herself up onto another.

 

"That face makes me think maybe not," Raven says, already moving to fix her a drink.

 

"Make it a double," Clarke requests bleakly.

 

Raven keeps the rum bottle tilted over the glass, so it's closer to three fingers than two. "Should I even ask?"

 

"I think the more pertinent question would be 'Do you want to know'." Clarke sighs, watching Raven splash Coke into the glass.

 

"Well, lucky for you," Raven says, sliding the glass over and reaching for a clean one to pour herself some Coke, "I'm currently bored of fighting my investors over Skype, so yeah, I got time. Shoot."

 

"I need your advice," Clarke says after a healthy gulp of Coke-laced rum. "You're the smartest person within a hundred-mile radius."

 

"Overstating it, but you've definitely got my attention. Describe your problem."

 

Clarke fidgets, running the tip of her finger along the rim of her glass. "How much do you know about dream interpretation?"

 

Raven pauses, gaze fixing on hers. "You realise all my degrees are in mechanical engineering, right?"

 

"I was kind of going with the assumption that you know everything."

 

" _Definitely_ overstating it." Raven sets her drink down, tilting her head so her ponytail swishes sideways. "What's up with you?"

 

Clarke pushes at her glass morosely. "I'm plagued by visions."

 

"What?"

 

She sighs. "I've been having this… dream recently."

 

"Okay," Raven says slowly. "What about?"

 

"About me." Clarke presses her lips together. "And, uh, a friend."

 

"A recurring dream about you and Bellamy," Raven says with a nod. "Go on."

 

Clarke frowns, sitting up in her chair. "Hold on, I didn't _say_ it was about Bellamy."

 

Raven rolls her eyes. "If it was about Monty or Jasper you would've just said it was about Monty or Jasper," she says clearly and patiently, like she's explaining two plus two to a four-year-old. "And if it was me, you would be talking to someone else about it."

 

"'You realise all my degrees are in _mechanical engineering,_ right,'" Clarke mocks.

 

"Do you want my awesome smarts or not," Raven retorts without heat, propping one elbow on the counter. "Go on. Bellamy's there, and…?"

 

Clarke sighs, dropping her gaze to her glass. "And… he makes me breakfast."

 

A brief silence stretches.

 

"And?" Raven asks flatly. "He already makes you breakfast every damn day."

 

Clarke swallows hard. Here it goes. "In my kitchen."

 

Another weighty silence.

 

Raven leans forward, frowning intently. "Naked?"

 

Clarke practically jumps out of her chair with embarrassed shock. " _No!_ What?! No!"

 

The spark of interest dims in Raven's eyes, and she settles back behind the counter, clearly disappointed. "Oh. Well, what the hell are you all flustered for, then?"

 

Clarke shifts her weight, a hot flush creeping up her chest. "Because— well— fine, okay. In the dream, I walk into my kitchen, he's there, making me breakfast, and then… he kisses me."

 

"Oh." Raven's brow arches. "Oh, _okay._ Tongue?"

 

" _No,_ " Clarke says hastily, ignoring the hint of disappointment that flickers in the back of her mind. "Jesus, no. Just a— a quick peck, kind of."

 

"A quick peck," Raven repeats, suspicion evident in her tone. "As in, _one?"_

 

Clarke just barely manages to resist throwing up her hands in surrender. "I don't _know._ A couple."

 

"A _couple,_ " Raven echoes again, nodding smugly.

 

"I'm leaving," Clarke announces, bracing her palms on the counter.

 

"All right, okay, I'll stop," Raven says with a wide grin, flapping her hands dismissively. "Okay, so you're having a recurring dream about kissing your friend. That's not _too_ weird. Once I had a dream that I saw Jasper naked. We were on a Ferris wheel, and for some reason, he was wearing a deerstalker cap, like a super skinny, extra pasty Sherlock Holmes. Oh, and he had a pickle for a dick. Don't ask," Raven says, shaking her head at Clarke's frown. "I honestly don't want to explore the symbolism behind _that_ image. What I'm saying is, your dream doesn't really sound like a _problem,_ you know?"

 

Clarke tears her gaze away from Raven's yet again, feeling the blush return to her cheeks. "Yeah, uh. That's not all that happens." She takes a deep breath, glancing hesitantly at Raven. "He also… talks to my—" She breaks off, gesturing to her midsection with one hand.

 

"Your stomach?" Raven's nose wrinkles. "What, is he worried you can't handle the pancakes you scarf down every single day?"

 

"Not my _stomach,_ " Clarke says, half despairing. She gestures again, making sure to go a little lower. "My..."

 

Raven's brows snap into a frown, her eyes following Clarke's hand and then travelling back up to her face. "What? _Why?"_

 

Clarke exhales heavily, deciding it's better to just bite the bullet. "Because apparently, in these dreams, my uterus is usually… _occupied."_

 

"Oh my God." Raven's grin returns, much to Clarke's annoyance. "You're _pregnant?"_

 

She cringes. "With twins."

 

" _Twins!"_

 

"Jesus, Raven," Clarke hisses, glancing around the empty bar in a flash of panic. "A little louder, maybe? I don't think they heard you all the way in _Hong Kong."_

 

"You dream that you and Bellamy are pregnant," Raven says, her grin widening. "You dream that you and Bellamy are pregnant, _with twins."_

 

"Will you stop saying that word," Clarke huffs, her cheeks hot. "You're supposed to be helping me figure out what this stupid dream means."

 

Raven barks a loud laugh. "Uh, _easy._ It means you want to have his _twins."_

 

"That's not true," Clarke objects, the words feeling strangely thin on her own tongue. "I don't even want kids."

 

"But you would if they were Bellamy's."

 

Clarke flushes, shoving away the thought of round little faces with freckles and dark curls. "This is stupid. Leave me alone."

 

Raven cocks her head, one brow lifted in disbelief. "You're the one who _came_ here."

 

Clarke didn't think it was possible, but her cheeks grow even redder. She leaps off the stool abruptly, just barely remembering to snatch up her bag. "I'm gonna go. See you around."

 

"Think about it, Clarke!" Raven calls after her. "That's all I'm saying! Think about it!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is, Clarke knows that the whole point of her avoiding Bellamy isn't to avoid Bellamy. It's completely and utterly the fact that that she _doesn't_ want to 'think about it' because, deep down, she knows exactly what the answer is.

 

Physical attraction to Bellamy has never been an issue for her. Any idiot with at least one eye in their skull could see that the man is drop dead gorgeous, with his thick dark curls, toe-curlingly deep voice, and jawline that could practically slice the bread he serves with his breakfast platters.

 

Emotional connection is a no-brainer, too. Once they got over their differences, it took them no time at all to discover they had a lot more in common than not. What traits or views they didn't share or agree on, they easily found themselves admiring and respecting each other for — an especially rare occurrence for her. (She tends to be a little bit on the stubborn side.) She doesn't even require a drop of alcohol to find herself opening up to Bellamy when they're alone, telling him things about herself and her past and her dreams that she never dares say aloud to anyone else.

 

She's pretty sure Bellamy trusts her just as much, too. For one thing, she was downright shocked to discover that no one else in town knew about his estranged sister. For another, she's the only one he lets step behind the diner counter, which she'd only discovered was a _thing_ for him when Monty nearly had a panic attack watching her saunter around the counter to grab herself an extra slice of pie. _("What the hell?"_ Monty had demanded, eyes rounded. _"He nearly chopped Jasper's hand off when he happened to lean a little too far over the counter this one time.")_

 

No, the problem is _definitely_ psychological.

 

For one thing, there's the townspeople to consider. Rumours of _'the new artist girl banging the diner guy'_ had started spreading the second week she'd moved here, although she feels like a lot of that is just due to the fact that Arktown doesn't see a lot of fights, verbal or physical. People were clearly mistaking their regular tension for sexual tension. (Because that's all it was, she tries to tell herself firmly. Regular, _unsexual_ tension.)

 

She'd thought that once she and Bellamy had reached a truce, the rampant gossip would die down. Much to her surprise, the poorly-disguised whispers only doubled in intensity once they started hanging out as friends. Bottom line is, she just doesn't want to give in to town gossip. (Ugh, she would _hate_ to prove the likes of Diana Sydney and Hannah Green right.)

 

More importantly, though… she really, _really_ doesn't want to fuck it up.

 

She hasn't had the best track record with relationships and romance. Bellamy knows this full well. She's told him all about Wells and Finn and Lexa. All the people who'd ever loved her, all hurt and let down because she couldn't give them what she wanted — full commitment. Wells had known better than to push, but she'd felt too guilty to let it drag out. Finn never really stopped being angry at her for turning down his marriage proposal, so that ended on a decidedly sour note. Lexa didn't understand her reasons for not wanting to move in together, but she understood enough to decide it was better they went their separate ways.

 

Everyone she's ever let herself love that way, everyone she's ever let love _her_ that way — she's lost them all.

 

And, without exaggeration, she'd quite literally rather die than lose Bellamy that way, too.

 

She needs him, but she needs him too much to _be_ with him. It's the fucking dumbest of oxymorons.

 

_'Dude,'_ Raven texts her later that evening, _'you GOTTA do something. Monty says he's even grumpier and snappier than usual, but like in a sad pathetic puppy kinda way so people can't even get mad at him.'_

 

_'How is that MY fault,'_ Clarke texts back, unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the fact that all the unanswered messages from Bellamy listed a few rows under are making her heart weigh heavy in her chest.

 

_'Just woman up and TALK to him, for christ's sake,'_ is all Raven has to say in response.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She's half-expecting Bellamy to turn around and walk away once he sees her standing there through the glass door of the diner, but to her relief, he lets her in.

 

"We're closed," he says without preamble, tapping on the sign hanging off the hook.

 

She shakes it off, reminding herself that if he _really_ didn't want to see her, he wouldn't have let her come in. "I know. I'm sorry. I was just wondering — can we talk?"

 

He runs a hand through his hair, looking a lot more on edge than she can remember seeing him in a long while. Only this time, there's an undercurrent to his frustration that marks it as completely different from the one that used to emanate off him in waves, back when the only way they knew to communicate was through raised voices and barbed snipes. There's something peculiar about this particular tension stretched throughout his broad frame, something pointed in the way he doesn't seem to meet her eye properly.

 

"I don't know, Clarke," he says, folding his arms across his chest. " _Can_ we?"

 

She opens her mouth, but he's already barrelling on, air rushing out of his chest like a dam loosed. "I mean, everything's fine and normal, and then out of nowhere, you just completely _disappear_ on me? First, you can barely look at me, then you practically run out of here without a word, you don't return any of my texts, you quit showing up for breakfast altogether for three days straight — I mean, did I _do_ something? I didn't even know if you were all right! Are you all right?!"

 

She blinks, thrown off by the abrupt question. "I'm— yes, I'm all right."

 

He exhales harshly, scrubbing a palm over his eyes. "All right! Okay, good. You're not sick?"

 

"No," she says, a little steadier. "But I—"

 

He shakes his head. "No, it's— _fuck._ I didn't mean to lose it like that. You don't have to explain every minute of your life to me. I was just— shit, I'm sorry, Clarke. I swear, I wasn't trying to—"

 

"Shut up," she blurts out.

 

His mouth falls open, and he looks at her directly for the first time since she'd walked through the front door. The bristle of his shoulders reminds him of how they were when they first met, and just like that, everything becomes crystal clear.

 

"Are you kidding?" he says, his heated tone significantly dampened by the note of surprise in his voice. "I'm trying to fuckin' _apologise_ here—"

 

"Bellamy," she says, stepping forward to grab onto the front of his worn T-shirt. "Shut _up._ "

 

And, before he can so much as blink, she yanks him close and kisses him.

 

She'd be lying if she said she's never imagined what it would be like to kiss Bellamy. Hell, she has three nights' worth of actual _dreams_ to prove it.

 

But suffice it to say that the real thing is far, _far_ better than any dream she's ever had.

 

When they finally pull apart, Bellamy looks as dazed as she feels, eyes glazed over and lips slightly swollen.

 

"Okay," he manages to croak, his arms tightening around her waist, where they've somehow found their way. "Uh… okay."

 

She curls her fingers where they're cupped around his head, nails trailing lightly through his hair and against his scalp. "Have dinner with me?" she asks, hoping she doesn't sound as breathless as she feels. "Not frozen pizza and old movies on my couch, or pie in the diner. I mean a _real—"_

 

"Yes," he says quickly, his warm breath fanning across her lips.

 

She peers up at him. "Really? You can take a second to think about—"

 

"Hell no," he says even quicker, gathering her closer. "Trust me, Clarke. I've spent two years thinking about it. I'm good."

 

She smiles, tipping forward so her forehead lightly presses against his, her chest practically flooding with warm happiness. "Yeah. Me too."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Five years later, it turns out they don't have twins, but they're pretty happy with the one kid they do have.

 

Clarke smiles the first time Bellamy talks to her belly, his nose practically grazing against her midsection as he murmurs affectionately to their unborn child.

 

After weeks of research and endless lists, Bellamy comes up with the perfect name.

 

Five months later, their daughter is born Aisling Griffin-Blake — from the Irish language, meaning _dream._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> that ending is fLUFFY AF but well i so rarely go there lmaooo. if you've got a minute, do lmk what you thought! it would be hella helpful =)
> 
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://ticogirls.tumblr.com)!


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